Midnight
by prosecutorial
Summary: Indeed, the city changes after the clock strikes midnight. Inspired by the novel After Dark by Haruki Murakami.
1. 11:43 pm

**11:43**

We begin at a diner.

This particular diner is rather ordinary, just one in a franchise of hundreds, perhaps thousands. It's a family restaurant, kitschy and humble and exactly the same in every location in the country. Its 24-hour business makes it the ideal hub for many: bar-hoppers, late workers, runaways. It sits nestled between a business office and a shopping complex, directly behind the movie theater. This diner is exactly halfway between the precinct and the prosecutor's office, but our protagonist is unaware of this. He would merely shrug, and say, "oh." He is unconcerned with such matters. All he knows is that the burgers are better than most, only through years of trial and error.

The clientele is sparse tonight. A young couple sits at a window-side booth, having milkshakes and pie as they delight in each other's company. An older man is at the counter, being careful about food falling in his bushy beard as he eats. Another couple sits at a table, their coffee turning cold as they are immersed in deep conversation.

Tonight, our protagonist sits in this very diner. His most distinguishing feature, much to his dismay, is his hair, jet black and defiantly spiky. He is a professional man, gleaned from his suit and tie. His suit jacket is draped over the chair next to him, unintentionally showing off a gold badge that presents itself proudly. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow and his tie is loose. He is at a four person table by himself, with only a lukewarm cup of coffee and a cumbersome-looking text to keep him company.

He is poring over the book with an intensity that is unbecoming of him and quite obviously straining him. He keeps his head up with his palm, his fingers gripping the top of his head in a gangly claw. When his head tilts a degree too far, he takes a sip of coffee and readjusts. Periodically, he shifts his position, leaning back and laying the book's spine across the table. The words "Law And" can be seen on the spine when he does this, embossed in gold against a leathery brown.

His concentration goes uninterrupted for some time. Customers come and go and he is still there, eyes glued to the pages. Finally, out of pure frustration, he gives up and closes the book. The waitress refills his coffee and he takes the mug in his hands, taking slow sips. He looks out the window, at the warm light from the street lamps against the black starless sky. He is exhausted, but he doesn't want to go home. The law book taunts him with its very presence and density, and he shoves it in his briefcase.

No longer absorbed in concentration, the man is alerted to the jingle of the front door opening. A man not much older than our protagonist steps in and looks around. He keeps a hand on his hat as if it would blow away, and keeps the other hand shoved in his pocket. His eyes dart across the all-but-empty room, scanning carefully and with purpose.

"May I help you, sir?" the waitress asks.

The older man's eyes land on our protagonist's table and, ignoring the waitress completely, strides over.

"Excuse me," he says, "are you Phoenix Wright?" He asks like it were a statement of fact.

"Oh, uh, yeah," the younger man replies, shaken a bit by the strange man's forwardness.

"Mind if I have a seat?"

"Go ahead," the younger man, Phoenix, says with trepidation. He sips at his coffee some more, watching the man across from him. He doesn't seem to be paying Phoenix much attention, just staring off to the side.

"So, mister...?"

"What brings you here so late, Phoenix?"

"E-Excuse me?" Phoenix stammers.

The older man looks directly at him, his mouth turned up in a smirk.

"I said, why are you here so late?"

Phoenix looks around the room, avoiding the man's eyes.

"How do you know who I am?" Phoenix asks weakly, looking askance at him.

The man pauses, never deviating his gaze from Phoenix's.

"Well, you're kind of famous," he answers, leaning back in his chair. His face remains in the same mischievous smirk. "And...how should I put this...?"

"What can I get you, sir?"

The waitress appears out of the older man's field of vision but he doesn't bother to turn around.

"Just coffee for me," he says.

The waitress nods and disappears.

"No need to answer," Phoenix stops him. "It doesn't matter that much anyway." He supposes.

The waitress returns with a steaming mug and promptly leaves, removing her apron and throwing it under the counter.

"I'm outta here!" she calls through the hole in the wall to the cook. She stops, listening to the response, and nods before leaving the building. Phoenix watches this exchange wordlessly.

"Do you have the time?" the older man asks.

"It's midnight, I think," Phoenix says. "Assuming I've been here for...two hours." Phoenix looks uncomfortable at this thought. Spending two hours in a diner trying fruitlessly to read a law book is not his idea of a fun night.

The man rubs his chin thoughtfully and nods.

"This city changes after midnight," he says casually. "We may get to witness its metamorphosis tonight." He smiles. "Lucky you."

"Right. Lucky me." Phoenix takes one last swig of coffee and stares into the empty bottom, watching the man with his peripheral vision. He thinks there is something definitely odd about him, but says nothing. He only watches.

* * *

The prosecutor's office.

It has a distinct presence, an air of importance and professionalism. It towers above the buildings around it, but it is by no means the tallest building in the city. Its stately exterior matches the other office buildings in the area, though it is comparatively antiquated.

The top floor: the twelfth floor.

It has gained a reputation for housing the best of the best. They are in a league of their own, handling only the toughest and most high-profile of cases. The genius prosecutors. The high prosecutors.

Most of the building is dark. Everyone has gone home, and every window is devoid of any light. Every window, that is, except for one on the top floor. The twelfth floor.

In this room sits a man. He is hunched over his desk, resting his head against his laced fingers like a particularly dubious villain. This is perhaps misleading, as he means no harm to anyone. He is merely preoccupied by the task set before him.

His steely gaze is set on a monitor. On this monitor is a woman, young and petite of figure. She is sitting in a chair turned ninety degrees to the right. We cannot see her face. She is unmoving, and if not for the steady rising and falling of her chest one would think the video feed is just a still image. Her hands are in her lap, implying that she is free of will and movement. She dares not move, though, for an external force is keeping her frozen in place. This is no physical force; she has been intimidated into submission.

The man watches this static feed with an intensity that is most distinguishing; he is no stranger to this kind of concentration. His eyes never leave the screen, not as he shrugs off his jacket or as his assistant brings him yet another cup of tea.

He unlaces his fingers and takes a sip.

"Better," he grunts.

The assistant bristles, playing with the neck of her navy muffler. She is a mere teenager, but often a cheerful one. She takes pleasure in giving her overseer a hard time, but tonight he is not having it. There is work to be done.

"Sorry I'm not some tea robot, Mr. Edgeworth," she huffs, arms crossed. "This is more Gummy's thing."

"Detective Gumshoe is no better at this than you are, Kay," he retorts. "Believe me."

She pouts, without the satisfaction of having him see it, and plops on his luxurious sofa.

"I'm tired," she says.

"Have some tea," he tells her between sips. His fair hair falls in his eye and he pushes it back again.

A silence lingers. The man, Edgeworth, sets his cup down and continues watching. The assistant, Kay, turns her attention to the window. Lights flicker off, other lights flicker on. The day has given way to night, and the difference is palpable. The tranquility is calming and unnerving. It is a very real contradiction, but it exists to purpose.

Indeed, the city changes when the clock strikes midnight.

* * *

_I've had this concept building in my head ever since I read Haruki Murakami's __After Dark__. It has this narrative style that I've wanted to try for a while, and one or two elements, like the diner (which was a Denny's in the book) and the times as chapters, will be taken. It will be pretty different, though._

_This. Will. Not. Die._

_I promise. _


	2. 12:07 am

**12:07**

The diner.

Its customers have more or less retired for the night. Phoenix Wright and his guest are the only ones left.

Phoenix decides to order a burger, extra cheese with no lettuce. Hold the fries; he's not that hungry.

The night shift waitress hurries off with his order, and he takes a swig of his third (or maybe fourth) cup of coffee. He holds the mug to his lips and blows the steam away one puff at a time.

"You never answered my question from before," his guest speaks up.

"What was that?" Phoenix asks, putting down his mug.

"Why are you here so late at night?"

"Oh, right." Phoenix loops his fingers around the mug's handle, gripping the body with his other hand. "I've been having trouble sleeping lately. My friend left a couple weeks ago, and it's just felt too...quiet." Phoenix avoids the man's eyes. "My apartment is too quiet. I go to my office and it's too quiet there. I grab a book and come here so I don't have to deal with that silence."

"It kind of sounds like this friend lived with you."

"Kinda," Phoenix shrugs. "It's a long story."

"I've got time." The man smiles. He seems genuinely interested, but his face betrays him. His eyes aren't crinkled right, his mouth is straining. There belies a hint of something dubious, though perhaps not sinister. Phoenix doesn't pick up on this, but he is not exactly looking at the man's face.

"She's my late mentor's little sister," he says plainly. "We've known each other for a few years. She's from this little village out in the boonies, and she went back because she had to." Phoenix's mouth tightens. "That's the short version."

"I think I understand," the man says, nodding. He is merely humoring him, though. Phoenix doesn't realize this, but he is not exactly paying attention to the man's inflection.

"It just doesn't feel the same around here without her," Phoenix says. "It almost feels like a chapter of my life is about to end. Do you know what I mean?"

"Huh," the man huffs. "Yeah, I guess so."

"I don't know...I don't know what I'm saying. It's silly." Phoenix rests his head on his balled fist, looking toward the kitchen. His plate is up and the waitress is is preparing condiments.

"Maybe a chapter of your life is about to end," the man says.

The waitress sets the plate in front of Phoenix, along with bottles of ketchup and mustard. Phoenix sits back.

"You think so?" Phoenix asks, slathering the top bun with mustard. A drop falls on his finger, and he licks it off.

"Sure," the man replies. "Why not? If you feel like it's going to happen, then it probably is."

"You say that like I'm some kind of psychic," Phoenix mumbles between mouthfuls of burger.

"Maybe you are," the man laughs. "I've seen stranger."

"Same." Phoenix laughs as well, though not as strongly.

He eats the rest of his burger, thinking about the man's words. He was most certainly doubting his abilities as a psychic, but the possibility that this is a transitory time of his life exists. It hangs over his head, but he is ever unaware.

The man drinks his coffee, looking out the window. It's pitch black outside, the high contrast with the twinkling lights of the city ever apparent.

The waitress brings the check.

"Oh," the man chimes in. "Do you mind paying for my coffee? I don't have any money on me." He rifles through his pockets as if it would prove anything.

"Yeah, sure," Phoenix says, beleaguered. He looks at the check, pulling out his wallet.

"I owe you for this," the man says.

Phoenix places a bill on the check, telling the waitress to keep the change.

"No, it's fine. It's just coffee." Phoenix smiles weakly. "I'm used to it, anyway."

The two down their drinks together, clunking their cups in time.

"Hey, this may seem a little forward," the man begins, "but do you want to take a walk with me?"

Phoenix pauses. He silently notes the irony in his "forwardness" after he asked him to pay for his coffee, and wonders if their chat about the ending chapter in his life really meant death.

"...Sure. I don't really want to go home yet." He accepts only because he feels strangely akin to this mysterious man. He may be a little off, but Phoenix feels that he is probably a good person. Probably.

The pair get up to leave, Phoenix rolling down his sleeves and shrugging his jacket back on. The older man is at the door, Phoenix is just grabbing his briefcase. The man opens the door, and leads Phoenix out with a gesture. One last glance back at their table, and the man follows into the pitch black night.

* * *

The prosecutor's office.

Edgeworth's eyes are beginning to strain but he shows no signs of relenting. He pushes his empty cup away, and it is swiftly replaced with another steaming cup. He takes a sip and his face puckers.

"Kay!" he snaps, setting it down. "Is this coffee?" His eyes never leave the monitor.

She suppresses a smile and a snicker.

"I didn't think it would take you until you drank it to figure it out," she says with laughter in her voice. "Besides, that tea isn't going to keep you awake. If this is really as important as you say it is, you need to stay sharp." She takes a fighting stance. "If I catch you sleeping on the job, mister...!"

"I get it," he nods. He takes another sip, his face turning more sour than before. "I've never really been a coffee man."

"It shows," Kay retorts.

Edgeworth's eyes narrow, and Kay pouts.

"Just having a little fun, Mr. Edgeworth. Jeez." She sits back down on the couch. "It's not like there's anything better to do around this stuffy place."

As if inspired by her own words, Kay stands.

"Although..."

"Kay, you will not be snooping around here," Edgeworth shoots her down, practically knowing what she's thinking. "I'm sure my neighbors would appreciate their case files left alone, and their offices for that matter."

Kay sits again slowly, stricken.

Edgeworth takes more sips of coffee, wincing at every one. Kay stares at the clock hanging just above his office door, the seconds ticking by. The second hand reaches the top, the minute hand moves one notch over, the second hand goes around again. Cyclic and never-ending. She can only watch for so long before she gets bored again, and her eyes wander to the shelves of case files. She follows with her eyes the lines, colors, spaces.

"Kay!" Edgeworth barks. "Come here."

She promptly obeys, moving to kneel beside his chair. She looks at the monitor and gasps.

"Is that...?"

"Yes," Edgeworth says. "It's what we've been waiting for all night."


	3. 12:48 am, side A

**12:48**

The skies are overcast, but this deep into the city there are no stars anyway. This only serves to underscore the sheer black of the night. The lampposts light the way artificially, coldly. Each building is awash in the same artificial light, either from the lampposts or of its own creation. Above the diner is the slightest hint of a moon, its delicately unrelenting glow softening the clouds that cover it.

Phoenix Wright thinks this is all poetic and lovely and everything, but he's not really in the mood for it.

He and his new "friend" are taking their walk, seeing the sights of a city that is so devoid of life it should be on a respirator. The "friend" points all this out, and Phoenix merely shrugs and nods. His mind is in other places.

"Hey," Phoenix says. "Do you really think my life is going to change?"

His friend thinks for a moment. The silence hangs in the heavy air.

"I do," he says, "only because change is inevitable."

"Oh." Phoenix sighs. He is visibly disappointed in his answer, for reasons he is unsure of.

"But," his friend adds, "don't get me wrong here. I definitely feel that you are about to enter a new phase in your life."

The man pauses.

"Let me ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"As we're walking along this street, can you feel anything?"

Phoenix is perplexed by this question, his mouth twisting into a leery frown.

"Like what?" Phoenix asks.

The man stops walking, and Phoenix follows suit a few steps later.

Somewhere, a chime. It's one o'clock.

Phoenix turns his head slowly, scanning for the source. This is a chime Phoenix has never heard before, and will never hear again.

A chill runs up his back as he scans the area, his eyes leaping from building to building, light to light, until finally they settle upon the man. He is smirking, his hands shoved in his sweatshirt pocket. There is something decidedly different about him, but Phoenix can't quite place it. There's something different about the whole city, for that matter. Phoenix feels it, but he can't see it.

"Whoa."

He needs to sit down for a minute.

Phoenix plops himself on a bench and holds his head in his hands.

"It's the same but different," the man says. "A kind of implacable feeling that kind of sits in your gut and makes waves with your stomach juices." He sits by Phoenix. "That feeling that something is definitely wrong with this picture, when it's just the same as it ever was."

He says, "Did you feel it?"

"Yeah," Phoenix says with a shaking sigh.

"Does it scare you?"

"Kinda," he chokes. "It just...happened. It took me over and I couldn't do anything."

"Phoenix," the man says, "I think there will come a time for you when you'll feel this feeling again, but stronger. You'll feel helpless, like nothing you do will get this feeling out of you. When this time comes, are you going to be strong? Or are you going to be weak?"

Phoenix freezes.

"I don't know," he says.

"Then be strong."

Phoenix stands slowly, still uneasy. He turns to the man looking up at him.

"Who _are_ you?"

The man is still smirking.

"I'm just a regular guy," he says.

A moving shadow in a lit window catches Phoenix's eye. He looks to see that the window belongs to the prosecutor's office. He counts the rows: twelve, exactly.

"Isn't that...?"

He steps toward the street, toward the building. He is unaware his feet are carrying his body forward. The shadow moves again, and Phoenix walks a hair faster. A pair of headlights flash by and Phoenix snaps to, just as he arrives at the sidewalk. He whips around and sees his enigmatic friend, smiling and waving on the other side of the street.

"Hey," Phoenix calls, "I think I'm going to go in here."

"Cool," the man answers. "If you need me, I'll be at the diner."

With a wave, the man turns and walks away, leaving Phoenix to wonder just what the hell is going on tonight.

After a beat, Phoenix realizes the building is probably locked, but he figures it doesn't hurt to try. He reaches for the handle, an action Phoenix finds oddly burdensome, and pulls.

With a straining squeak, the door opens.

...

_I told you this wouldn't die. It might be slow-going, though. I just haven't found the time for writing lately. I'll try my best, though!_

_We'll get back to the prosecutor's office next time._


End file.
